Men's Skinny Jeans

I just really don't understand the allure of "skinny" jeans on men. I've come to accept today's skinny jeans for women. They are much better looking than the tapered mom jeans of yore, and they can really flatter some (female) figures quite beautifully. Personally, I have never worn skinny jeans because I have yet to find a pair that I can pull up past my knees. Mostly because my thighs are out of control. And also because I don't really try to find them. Anyway.

Tapered 80's jeans = Belong on Angela from Who's The Boss




Skinny jeans on girls = attractive and stylish.





Skinny jeans on boys = oh my goodness someone please poke out my eyes with a javelin.


Wrangler butts do not drive me nuts.


Men's skinny jeans must go.

Drinking Fountain Farters

Sometimes, people just have to fart. Its unavoidable. It would be unrealistic for me to declare that all farters must go, because there would be no one left on earth. However, I do believe that there is a special place in hell for drinking fountain farters.

I was thirsty this morning at work. Really thirsty. It may or may not have something to do with the nearly full bag of pretzels I consumed last night. Anyway. My thirst was scorching the back of my throat with the dryness of 10,000 Saharas when I approached the glorious office drinking fountain. As I leaned over to partake of the delicious water, I found myself surrounded by someone else's putrid bodily vapors.

That may have been the most unpleasant surprise of my life.

Why. WHYYYYYYY???? For the love of all that is good, hold it in.

Or, let it go. BEFORE you come within a 20 foot radius of any food or drink source.

blegh.

Drinking fountain farters must go.

THEY MUST!

Ke$ha

I feel like it's probably not necessary to write out a lengthy explaination as to why Ke$ha needs to go, so I'll keep these sentiments brief. Like a speedo.

• Ke$ha spells her name with a dollar sign.
• She has the most annoying valley-girl voice I have ever heard.
• She thinks it is awesome and unique to misspell the titles to the songs she slurs.
• I tried to pull up some lyrics as further proof that she is a non-contributor to the music world, but her lyrics website gave my computer an electronic STD and I had to shut the whole thing down.
• The song that I was looking at as an example of her idiotic filth uses the phrase "BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH" over and over again and makes several allusions to committing unspeakable acts whilst drunk in a club.
• And finally, she looks like a hot mess. Barfing diamonds.

For the love of all that is musical, and in support of the fight against venereal disease,

Ke$ha must go.

The Mustache

We have a dangerous and damaging epidemic on our hands amongst the young adult males of our generation. It is as vile and viral as they come. And yet, no one seems to be as concerned about it as I am. What is this mystery plague infecting our men, you ask? Athlete's foot? Giardia? Leprosy? No. Worse:

MUSTACHES.

Dirty, nasty, stringly, fluffy, crumby, mustaches. "Moustaches." Cookie dusters. Soup strainers. Misplaced eyebrows. Stalker 'staches. Face fungus.

For some reason, an increasing number of potentially attractive men feel that mustaches are an appropriate outlet for expressing their manly capabilities to grow facial hair. They are sorely mistaken.

Mustaches make me want to hurl. If you are not Burt Reynolds, a police officer, or over the age of 55, mustaches should be strictly prohibited. I am not typically a hater of facial hair. I like me some scruff every now and then, but mustaches just must go.

For example: Take an extremely good looking man. Add the following:


A goatee? Fine.




Sideburns? Excellent.

Manly scruffiness? Superb.

But a mustache?



Woof.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

You have made a beautiful man into an atrocity. Adding a weird patch of lip hair to a handsome face (or ANY face, for that matter) is a recipe for disaster. Please men, be responsible. Grow some sideburns. Forget to shave for a couple days. But I beg of you.... do not, under any circumstance, grow a mustache.

Mustaches must go.

The First Farewell: Speedos

I remember the day that I first became aware of the existence of speedos. It was on a field trip, way back in Kindergarten. Our whole class had traveled to the beach to collect seashells, make sand castles, and splash our little feet in the cool water. Little did I know that within a few short minutes of beach bliss I would behold the atrocity known to most as a "speedo" for the very first time in my life.

Having 4 sisters and being only 5 years old, I had until that time escaped the horror of brief male swimwear. The first offender I observed was a boy in my class named Sean. He was running, jumping, skipping, even leaping around the surf in what appeared to be a pair of panties. I was puzzled. I was disturbed. Why was he wearing panties? And how had he fashioned them out of an American flag? Even at the tender age of 5, I just knew that this unnatural display was wrong. So wrong. I thought to myself... "Wow, whatever that is, it needs to go."

His star-spangled booty would be the first in a long line of speedo sightings through the years that I wish I could erase from my memory, each one a little more disturbing than the last.

My most recent speedo sighting occurred last week, while I was waiting in line to take a turn on a rope swing at a local pond. The speedo-wearing pond perpetrator was in his mid thirties, with the physique of your average NASCAR enthusiast. It's hard to find any appropriate words right now to accurately describe the visual abuse he inflicted on all those who found him within their sight. Suffice it to say, that there were children there who will be asking their parents some very tough questions in the next few days. I really don't want to talk about it anymore.

Dear Universe,

for the sake of the children:

Speedos. Must. Go.